But I still wear jean jackets!

I can't be that old, right?

I see that I have a bunch of new subscribers, so welcome! Typically I write about depression and anxiety and writing and my dog and sometimes my son Henry but this time I’m writing about dresses. Look: I go where the muse sends me. 

The Instagram algorithm has finally clocked that I’m in my fifties and now all the ads I’m getting are for “zapping menopause belly” and “let’s take a look at that neck flappage, shall we” and “Jesus Christ, your face.” 

Settle down, ads. 

Worse: I started receiving ads for reasonably lengthed dresses and I was like finally, these are back in style—and then the next slide would announce, “For the mature woman.” I’ve been tricked! But damn it, I still like them.  I would have always liked them, even when I was immature. I am ghostly pale and have never been into exposing myself. Thus, I like a midi dress. I want a summer dress to hit me at around the calves, and I don’t care if it’s not the most flattering length. I do not prefer a maxi dress; I don’t need to trip over a hem or hold up my crinolines to walk down the stairs like I live in the 19th century. I certainly don’t want a minidress. I don’t even trust a knee-length number at this point; those babies can fly up at the merest hint of a breeze and I do not enjoy showing passersby what kind of underwear I’m wearing. 

(Even though I’ve always preferred generous coverage, years ago I traipsed around the city one fine weekend wearing a bikini with a transparent baby doll dress over it, thinking, “This seems fine to me? Am I okay?” and the answer was that I was newly in love with Scott and thus clinically out of my gourd. Oh, who am I kidding, I looked cute.) 

Anyway, the midi dresses are coming at me hard and fast and I keep clicking on them and the algorithm serves me even more, but now they’re definitely lower quality than they were; they’re from sites I’ve never heard of with captions full of broken English (“For womens! Hide parts with this gown!”). Finally, one dress caught my eye: It looked casual enough to wear every day, cute enough to potentially dress up with accessories; it was from one of those eco-friendly sites — which, in retrospect, should have sent up a warning flare. But I ordered it, and it arrived. 

And my friends, it is the saddest sack that has ever been sacked. First of all, the color: somewhere between gray and brown. (It was labeled SOOT, so it’s not like I wasn’t warned.) Secondly: the shape. Specifically the lack of shape. This might work on someone with broad shoulders, but I don’t have those, so I was shit out of luck. This thing just hung from me, obliterating any sense that I have or ever had a body. I looked, in the words of one SNL sketch that I feel personally attacked by, “how incense smells.” Get me a pair of orthopedic sandals and some chunky wooden jewelry: I’m done. 

Scott looked at me and said, “Aw, it’s fine! You look … comfortable?” and I immediately stuffed that thing back into its recycled cardboard bag and told myself that I’m going to ship it back as soon as I remember, which should be right before the return window lapses. How dare you, sir.